Gloria moved fast.
That same afternoon, she called Greg Lundquist at Great Lakes Mutual herself. She told him she was representing me and that we would be sending certified copies of the original declarations page, my mother’s letter and the practice sheet. The originals would stay locked in her office safe.
Then she drafted a formal letter to the insurance company stating that I was contesting the change of beneficiary form as a forgery, and requesting that the claim remain frozen.
Then she did one more thing.
“Jennifer,” she said, “I want you to file a police report. Today.”
“Against my own sister?”
“Against whoever forged your mother’s signature,” she said. “If that’s your sister, the police will figure it out. But Great Lakes Mutual is going to refer this to the Indiana Department of Insurance fraud unit no matter what you do. That’s their job. You want to be the one who walked in the door first. With your hands open.”
I sat there and thought about it.
I thought about Marla at nine years old, holding my hand on the walk to the bus stop because I was scared of the big kids. I thought about her at Tom’s funeral, standing at the back of the church, checking her phone during the eulogy.
I thought about her counting my four twenties in her hallway. Licking her thumb.
And I thought about my mother’s handwriting, sliding down off the lines.
Buy yourself a decent coat for once in your life.
“Okay,” I said.
At four o’clock, I sat in a small gray room at the Hamilton County Sheriff’s Office across from a detective named Sergeant Dale Hanley. He was about sixty, with a gray mustache and a tired, kind face.
He read everything. He asked me a lot of questions. He made copies of everything on a big beige machine in the corner.
When he got to the practice sheet, he held it up to the window light and looked at it for a long time.
“You’re sure this is your sister’s handwriting? These little notes in the margin?”
“I’ve been reading her handwriting since I was five,” I said. “She used to write my name on my lunch bags.”
He nodded slowly and set it down.
“Mrs. Hollis,” he said. “I’m going to be honest with you. These things take time. We’ll work with the insurance company. We’ll need handwriting comparisons. We’ll want to talk to the folks at the nursing home about your mother’s condition in February. And we’ll want to talk to your sister.”
“When?”
“When we’re ready,” he said. “Not before. Don’t tell her you came here. Don’t confront her. If she contacts you, keep it short, and write down everything she says.”
“She wants the jacket back,” I said. “By six o’clock tonight. She said if I don’t bring it, she’ll come get it.”
Sergeant Hanley thought about that.
“Give it to her,” he said.
I stared at him. “What?”
“The jacket’s not evidence anymore. The papers are. Give her back the jacket. Let her go through the pockets and find them empty.” He almost smiled under his mustache. “Then let her sit with that.”
Specialty: Emotional Turning Points
Rachel Monroe writes character-driven stories about betrayal, second chances, and unexpected resilience. Her work highlights the emotional side of family conflict — the silences, the misunderstandings, and the moments when someone quietly decides they’ve had enough.